Page 73 of Cruel Demands

There’s that voice again. Calm. Reasonable. A blade laid flat on a table.

I stare at him. “With what?”

He shrugs. “Anything. Everything.”

“That is an awful thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

“It sounds like what you really mean is that not being close to one could hurt me.”

Silence. Absolute silence. My stomach drops. Because he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t say, no, Taylor, of course not. He simply watches me with that unreadable expression, and suddenly the office feels much larger and much smaller at the same time.

“Why didn’t Nikolai call me?”

His gaze sharpens. He feigns ignorance, but not well. “Who?”

“The guy from the bar. Nikolai. Did he not call because of you?”

“You are very cocky. Sometimes, men get a woman’s number just to prove they can.”

My face burns. “That is not an answer.”

“It is true.”

“It’s a dodge,” I say, and when his mouth curves faintly without commentary, I grab my notebook from the desk and turn to leave. “I’m going back to my desk.”

“That is not where I assigned you.”

“I don’t care,” I scoff.

Behind me, his chair scrapes against the floor. Before I reach the door, his hand closes around my elbow, and he pulls me around to face him. The contact goes through me so violently that for one humiliating second, I forget to be angry. I remember his hand over mine in the dark. His mouth at my temple. His voice saying good girl. My body blushes beneath his hand, and my lips part as our eyes meet, the front of my white blouse brushing his shirt.

Then I remember where we are. At work. In daylight. With an open door and my future on the other side of it. I look down at his hand and then back up at him. “This isn’t a movie,” I say quietly. “Let go.”

His hand opens immediately. I feel relieved, but deep down, I feel disappointed too. I don’t know who this Taylor is that I’m becoming.

16

TAYLOR

My mother calls at seven fourteen.

I know it’s bad before I answer.

Not because of the time. Seven fourteen in Moscow is still late morning at home, and my mother is a morning person in the way some people are born with blue eyes or allergies. She’s always believed that bad news sits better with coffee.

But she doesn’t usually call me.

She texts first. A little warning. A soft landing. Hey honey, are you free? Can I call you for a second? Nothing scary, just want to hear your voice.

This call comes with no warning. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed with my work clothes still on, including my shoes, and my blouse half-untucked, staring at the wall like it might explain what happened today.

My elbow still remembers Mikhail’s hand. Not the pressure. The restraint. The instant he let go when I told him to. That should be the part I’m proud of. Instead, it’s the part I keep touching through my sleeve like a bruise I wish were darker.

My phone buzzes again. Mom.

I answer before it can stop. “Hi.”